


Choices

by Touchshriek (Valmouth)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Touchshriek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger hefted the strap of his bag and mentally rolled up his sleeves. He stifled the grin and felt the old, familiar heat rise in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own no rights to these two people or to any approximation of reality that may be referenced herein. I mean no offence by posting it and make no money from it.
> 
> A/N: Originally posted to the fedal_slash LJ comm in 2009

There had to have been a better way to do it, Roger thought. And he found himself sucking in a deep breath as he straightened up from tying his shoes. 

That, he decided, was a depressing occurrence. Right along with breathing hard while climbing the stairs and needing to surreptitiously undo the button on his jeans after dinner.

The locker rooms at Rod Laver still smelt the same. He was hit by a wave of memories just sitting there, adrenaline pumping through his veins and a fair bit of uncharacteristic worry fizzing in his chest.

He decided to ignore it.

His leg began to bounce and he forced himself to stop.

He pursed his lips as he rubbed his wrist. He hoped it would hold. If Rafa’s power was still as great, it might be hard to absorb the shock. It never had set right after that bloody stupid skiing accident.

Whoever heard of two reasonably sensible men deciding to ski after three too many drinks in the hotel bar? And whoever heard of the more experienced of two such men falling over on the gentlest mound of snow in the history of a Swiss ski slope and breaking his wrist? Rafa, wobbly on skis as he was, had come out of it with nothing more than a bruise.

There was a knock at the door and he sighed to himself. He got to his feet and thanked God that his knees weren’t yet at the stage where they cracked at him.

He picked up the Wilson bag. He slung it over one shoulder. He flexed his troublesome wrist, offered up a prayer for his fragile ankle and even more fragile pride, and opened the door.

“Mr. Federer, they’re ready for you.”

It sounded like a movie set, he thought sourly. But he had to smile. The young woman smiled at him like she knew all about him, and approved thoroughly of the lot. She was also very pretty. And he wasn’t indifferent to pretty women. 

He always missed Mirka whenever he came back to these places. Much of his career was bound up in memories of her as much as anyone else; she had been so staunchly on his side. Never blinkered or unnecessarily complimentary, but always loyal. They’d had a good relationship. Of sorts.

It hadn’t ended very prettily. He unconsciously fingered the little scar on his left index finger. He’d cut himself from the shock of hearing her say she knew all about it.

Stupid detectives. They were meant to be for movies and American television shows.

“If you could just wait here for a second, Mr. Federer.”

He briefly tested his weight on his bad ankle. It hadn’t played up in a while and he was confident that the brace would keep it going.

He heard the footsteps and knew who it was.

He’d heard them many times before. Waiting outside a door with nothing to lose at some ungodly hour of the night, his bandaged finger throbbing, listening to those footsteps as they thumped along to let him in.

“It hurts?” Rafa asked quietly, coming up behind him.

“No,” Roger said, and then frowned, “What?”

“Your ankle. You were testing it, no?”

The quirk of speech and accent were all that remained of Rafa Nadal’s struggles with the English language. Roger quite thought Rafa only kept those idiosyncrasies from obstinacy, as a badge of national pride.

“Oh. No. I was just checking, you know, to make sure the brace isn’t too tight.”

Rafa grinned suddenly. “You’re nervous.”

Roger grinned. “You wish.”

Those thick arms flexed and Roger knew all too well that they were still powerful. He’d been pinned by them enough times. To beds, walls, various articles of furniture. Once to the hood of a car, but he preferred not to think about that.

He’d never appreciated how difficult it was to get semen off the hood of a silver Mercedes before. And Rafa, of course, had only laughed at him.

“I’ll be nice,” Rafa teased.

“You’ll be lucky to get the chance.”

He felt the lingering warmth of Rafa’s fingertips in the small of his back. They were something he took for granted most days, except for times like these when they meant something a little different.

“I'm very lucky, me,” Rafa laughed.

The woman was coming back towards them and Roger felt Rafa press up slightly against his side.

“She is cute.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Roger said airily.

And then jumped as Rafa’s foot kicked up at the back and struck him smartly on his arse.

Rafa was already moving away before he could form a proper plan of retribution. Dark eyes tossed a challenge back at him over one powerful shoulder.

Roger hefted the strap of his bag and mentally rolled up his sleeves. He stifled the grin and felt the old, familiar heat rise in him.

Lines were clearer. Angles were sharper. Colours were bright. Sounds grew muted except for the thud thud of his own heart. It was already picking up speed and he followed on a step behind Rafa into the roar of the crowd.

It was never quite like old times, he thought, savouring the thrill, but it was close enough. Playing the Legends matches let him remember why he's chosen this life. And all in all, he could live with the consequences.

There had to have been a better way to do it, Roger thought. And he found himself sucking in a deep breath as he straightened up from tying his shoes. 

That, he decided, was a depressing occurrence. Right along with breathing hard while climbing the stairs and needing to surreptitiously undo the button on his jeans after dinner.

The locker rooms at Rod Laver still smelt the same. He was hit by a wave of memories just sitting there, adrenaline pumping through his veins and a fair bit of uncharacteristic worry fizzing in his chest.

He decided to ignore it.

His leg began to bounce and he forced himself to stop.

He pursed his lips as he rubbed his wrist. He hoped it would hold. If Rafa’s power was still as great, it might be hard to absorb the shock. It never had set right after that bloody stupid skiing accident.

Whoever heard of two reasonably sensible men deciding to ski after three too many drinks in the hotel bar? And whoever heard of the more experienced of two such men falling over on the gentlest mound of snow in the history of a Swiss ski slope and breaking his wrist? Rafa, wobbly on skis as he was, had come out of it with nothing more than a bruise.

There was a knock at the door and he sighed to himself. He got to his feet and thanked God that his knees weren’t yet at the stage where they cracked at him.

He picked up the Wilson bag. He slung it over one shoulder. He flexed his troublesome wrist, offered up a prayer for his fragile ankle and even more fragile pride, and opened the door.

“Mr. Federer, they’re ready for you.”

It sounded like a movie set, he thought sourly. But he had to smile. The young woman smiled at him like she knew all about him, and approved thoroughly of the lot. She was also very pretty. And he wasn’t indifferent to pretty women. 

He always missed Mirka whenever he came back to these places. Much of his career was bound up in memories of her as much as anyone else; she had been so staunchly on his side. Never blinkered or unnecessarily complimentary, but always loyal. They’d had a good relationship. Of sorts.

It hadn’t ended very prettily. He unconsciously fingered the little scar on his left index finger. He’d cut himself from the shock of hearing her say she knew all about it.

Stupid detectives. They were meant to be for movies and American television shows.

“If you could just wait here for a second, Mr. Federer.”

He briefly tested his weight on his bad ankle. It hadn’t played up in a while and he was confident that the brace would keep it going.

He heard the footsteps and knew who it was.

He’d heard them many times before. Waiting outside a door with nothing to lose at some ungodly hour of the night, his bandaged finger throbbing, listening to those footsteps as they thumped along to let him in.

“It hurts?” Rafa asked quietly, coming up behind him.

“No,” Roger said, and then frowned, “What?”

“Your ankle. You were testing it, no?”

The quirk of speech and accent were all that remained of Rafa Nadal’s struggles with the English language. Roger quite thought Rafa only kept those idiosyncrasies from obstinacy, as a badge of national pride.

“Oh. No. I was just checking, you know, to make sure the brace isn’t too tight.”

Rafa grinned suddenly. “You’re nervous.”

Roger grinned. “You wish.”

Those thick arms flexed and Roger knew all too well that they were still powerful. He’d been pinned by them enough times. To beds, walls, various articles of furniture. Once to the hood of a car, but he preferred not to think about that.

He’d never appreciated how difficult it was to get semen off the hood of a silver Mercedes before. And Rafa, of course, had only laughed at him.

“I’ll be nice,” Rafa teased.

“You’ll be lucky to get the chance.”

He felt the lingering warmth of Rafa’s fingertips in the small of his back. They were something he took for granted most days, except for times like these when they meant something a little different.

“I'm very lucky, me,” Rafa laughed.

The woman was coming back towards them and Roger felt Rafa press up slightly against his side.

“She is cute.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Roger said airily.

And then jumped as Rafa’s foot kicked up at the back and struck him smartly on his ass.

Rafa was already moving away before he could form a proper plan of retribution. Dark eyes tossed a challenge back at him over one powerful shoulder.

Roger hefted the strap of his bag and mentally rolled up his sleeves. He stifled the grin and felt the old, familiar heat rise in him.

Lines were clearer. Angles were sharper. Colours were bright. Sounds grew muted except for the thud thud of his own heart. It was already picking up speed and he followed on a step behind Rafa into the roar of the crowd.

It was never quite like old times, he thought, savouring the thrill, but it was close enough. Playing the Legends matches let him remember why he'd chosen this life. And all in all, he could live with the consequences.


End file.
